


you were the song stuck in my head

by minorseventh



Series: love is on the radio (otayuri au) [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pining, alternate universe - DJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 20:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9783680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorseventh/pseuds/minorseventh
Summary: “Not a good day,” he says simply. “Play me something.”Otabek says nothing, doesn't acknowledge that he recognizes the nameless voice on the other end of the line, just chooses a track and lets the music fill the late-night radiowaves.Yuri recognizes the tune and smiles like a fool in love. Which, by the way, he totally, totally isn’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from fall out boy ("favorite record")
> 
>  
> 
> [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/athomeintheuniverse/playlist/7HLMtrklntKVgzv6eXrfoR)  
> 

Between his nighttime internet surfing and crazy morning ballet practice with Lilia, Yuri finds himself always up simultaneously way too late and way too early for his own good. The time around midnight is a strange equilibrium balance between consciousness and reality, when the city is asleep and abuzz with untapped pensive energy. Outside, on a pale sidewalk frosted with snow, a lone figure in a trench coat crosses the road to go home. It’s thoughtful, quiet. It’s the perfect time to turn up the radio: DJs, no matter the genre, always seem to have better taste when it’s late at night. Yuri listens behind half-suspended eyelids, mentally choreographing every song that comes up.

A year ago, he’d be surfing stations, listening to rare classical pieces, unknown jazz solos, or forgotten Anthrax B-sides, all tracks he enjoyed, and even might’ve skated to. But now he always ends up on 103.1FM, semi-awake as he flips through a magazine, waiting for the change of guard, for the 12AM slot.

He tunes out until a new voice finds itself filtering through his crappy speakers. It’s this guy with an unfailing taste in music and an amazing (if monotone) sense of humor that Yuri somehow can’t get enough of:

“–and you’re listening to 103.1. This is Otabek, occupying the sound system until the sane regulars show up later for the morning commute. Happy Tuesday, everybody. Hope you’re all doing well this fine morning. Up next: Luna by the Smashing Pumpkins.”

Usually, Otabek’s segment is filled with Black Flag and Iron Maiden, but he doesn’t hesitate to put on the kinds of crazy gems no other host would play: Beethoven, Pentatonix, Vance Joy… nothing genre-typical.

Yuri listens to the wobbling melancholy of the electric guitar. It chases away his thoughts until he’s completely focused on the melody, staring at his ceiling and tracing patterns with his eyes.

_I'll sing for you, if you want me to, I'll give to you._

He wonders what made Otabek think of this song, this so unnaturally soft and content song, today of all days, tries to see in his mind’s eye what may be the underlying cause for it going on air… pictures an apartment room, its door opening, Otabek leading a pretty girl to the couch and putting this record on for background music, pictures the needle dropping and him tucking a beautiful long strand of hair behind her ear with an irresistible smile before he…  

_I’m in love with you, so in love, I’m in love with you._

Yuri feels the slightest bit heartbroken, but he doesn’t know why. The song ends, and he blinks away the tears before he can admit they were ever there. It’s fast enough for him to trick himself.

The microphone switches on; Yuri hears a smooth click and a faint buzzing.

“That was the Smashing Pumpkins—with Luna, on 103.1.” There is a slight pause and a shuffling of papers. “This is Otabek, playing whatever I feel like. To be honest, I only can because I don’t think anyone else was willing to get paid this little for this kind of a job,” the DJ says, and laughs, a trembling low tenor that makes Yuri’s stomach do grand jêtés.

“Maybe I’ll play Katy Perry, or Chopin, or… or Beethoven’s entire 9th Symphony. It’s not like you can stop me. Actually, scratch that. Please don’t tell the producer to take my show off the air. I genuinely love playing this music for my nonexistent audience. I’m always so happy because of you guys. Too bad you can’t all see the look on my face right now.”

Yuri wishes he could.

He wonders what Otabek looks like, tries to assign a face and hairstyle to the cool, collected voice, but nothing seems to fit: not blonde, not curly, not Victor’s casual bangs, not Georgi’s gelled mohawk… Yuri overthinks it, and falls asleep dreaming of anonymous callers and mysterious unanswered tunes. The last thing he thinks he hears is the chorus to The Boxer—Simon & Garfunkel, but by then he’s too deep in REM to tell.

*

Every so often, Yakov makes them practice their stage presence and improvisation by putting on random music clips for the team. The goal is to immediately be able to connect with the music, so as to quickly arrange and execute a suitable dance within milliseconds of hearing the song.

Yakov fiddles with the boombox dial, landing on news stations and weather reports as he searches for something interesting.

“What do you think it’s like, being a DJ?” Yuri says, ostensibly out of the blue.

“Well, it’s a good job for someone who might have a better voice than face,” Mila answers. “Good-looking broadcasters could probably make it on TV, I’d think. Or at least become a YouTube celebrity.”

Yuri frowns, but before he can open his mouth, Yakov lands on a Shastokovich excerpt, and on his command, all the skaters instantly dance across the ice. There’s no stopping, no breaking concentration.

Then they launch into Poker Face, switch to Dark Eyes, glide to some Puccini operetta. Yakov yells to use the art commissioned by your heart and soul, to push every action technically and expressively, to test the boundaries of inventive capacity, to tell a story.  

*

“I’m sorry, but he doesn’t take requests,” the operator says curtly.

“I’m probably the only listener right now anyways,” Yuri says. “I’m sure he’ll play it. Just let me through to him while another track is on the air, will you?”

There’s no immediate response, but he hears muted talking, probably through a cupped hand. (Quite unprofessional—shouldn’t the operator be the first to know how to use a ‘hold’ button?)

Yuri catches clips of dialogue that aren’t quite muffled. “Oh really… you’re serious… fucking kidding me… okay.”

“Stay on the line,” the operator tells Yuri, and then there’s dead silence.

To fill the silent void, he turns up the volume on his old portable radio: it’s Metallica. Classic.

Then, as the song comes to a close, both devices crackle to life.

“103.1FM, this is Otabek, and… it appears we have a caller…?”

Yuri picks up his phone. “ _Postcards from Italy_ by Beirut,” Yuri says, sans explanation.

Otabek hums in approval. “Feeling down recently, caller?”

Yuri didn’t expect a response. He fumbles with his words. “Um… yeah… just dance practice… pretty tiring.” He curses himself for admitting he dances—he feels like he circled the wrong multiple choice answer.

“Dance is a painstakingly tough sport. I admire anyone who can commit to it,” the DJ answers.

Before Yuri can protest, he hears the opening chords to his request.

“Thank you,” he says, out loud, to nobody in particular.

His phone is still illuminated by the screen of an ongoing call.

“Shoutout to our anonymous caller for that last selection: _Postcards from Italy_ by Beirut. You’re welcome, anonymous caller. Best wishes. Hope you feel better.”

By then, Yuri has already switched the radio off.

*

When practice is over for the day, Yuri all but dashes to the edge of the rink and picks up his phone (all the while internally screaming at the slow connection). But it’s all to no avail: when he pulls up the 103.1 website, his favorite 12AM host slot shows an empty profile picture. Nothing but a cruel, blank gray box with a hovering faceless droid. It’s an icon that nobody cared to personalize, captioned with an “Otabek” hyperlink. Yuri clicks it, but it just reloads the page. Still nothing but that gray box.

The site mocks his worries. _Questions, comments, or concerns?_ it asks.

Yes, Yuri wants to yell. What about his voice and taste in music makes him so utterly perfect? Who is he? Likes and dislikes? What does really he look like?

Shit. There’s no way Otabek’s actually dreadfully ugly, is there? Terrible-looking enough to not deserve his own picture on the official website?

Then again, doesn’t everyone say personality is what counts? That appearance isn’t everything? That what’s on the outside has no impact on the inside?

Yuri blinks twice, furiously, and throws the goddamn phone at the wall, narrowly missing the digital clock.

It blinks indignantly. Four thirty-two PM. Four thirty-three PM.

*

“Familiar caller ID to 103.1FM,” Otabek intones. “Hello there, anonymous dancer. This is Otabek. Do you have another request?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri says. “Play whatever you want.”

“That’s what I do every day, all the time,” Otabek points out.

“Yeah, but that’s because it’s your job. Now that I told you so, you should know that someone out there requests a request, only that it be chosen by you,” Yuri declares, utterly failing to explain what he had meant to. “Just… you know what I mean,” he finishes lamely, eternally grateful for the lack of a video feed accompanying his call.

“Alright,” Otabek says, with an adorable little laugh. “If you say so.”

There’s the sound of rustling paper and bleeping controls.

“Dedicated to our anonymous dancer, here’s _You Only Live Once_. I don’t remember the artist, but if you stick around after it finishes, I’ll have the name by then.”

Yuri’s eyes widen. It’s like the guy can read his mind. It’s like telekinesis that can find the answers Yuri himself didn’t know he needed.

*

“What’s with the weird questions, Yura?”

“Excuse me? How was that weird? Tell me how that was a weird question! All I said was: ‘how do you know if you–’”

“–have a soulmate. Yeah, I got that the first time. It’s just that… before now, you’ve always been obsessed with blatantly shutting down the world rather than discover more about it.” Mila puts a finger to her chin. “Oh, I get it! You’ve just past your emo phase, haven’t you?”

“What do you know, you old hag?!”

Mila barrels on, with a vaguely consoling voice, oblivious to Yuri’s rage. “Have you finally realized there’s more to life than what you expect? Something must have helped you realize that. Not everyone comes to that conclusion easily, you know. It took Georgi _ages_.”

Yuri doesn’t respond. He abandons the one-sided conversation and starts doing laps around the rink. Baba thinks she’s better than him? Well, he doesn’t need her horrible advice. He’s fast. Very fast. He should be a speed skater. Fast, precise, efficient. No constant reminders of the harmony between pair skaters, or the confidence of soloists. None of this emotional figure skating crap.

*

“The clock has struck twelve, Cinderella: your life is over but mine has just begun… oh my god, who wrote this script?”

There’s the telltale sound of someone fumbling with their headset, and a soft, “Fuck, JJ switched out my list!”

Otabek immediately launches into _Revolution Radio_.

Yuri jams along, trying not to laugh. This must be what having a best friend is like—fun, forgiving, but unforgettable.

*

Yuri rides the high from their last conversation (the longest one yet—a full two minutes on the air) through the entire day.

He’s pretty sure the station operator hates him, but that’s okay. (By now the guy is so regularly pissed that he doesn’t even talk to Yuri, just forwards the call up to the recording booth.)

He’s pretty sure Lilia is just about ready to murder him for being late and absentminded, but he doesn’t care. (It’s a full day of ballet practice, and she threatens to play trap music the entire time he stretches at the barre, but both of them know she could never stand listening to that junk anyways.)

He’s pretty sure his cat would approve of his late-night music listening habits. And that’s from the currently second-most important being in his life, so it’s valid judgement.

*

It becomes a game, a routine.

“Not a good day,” he says simply. “Play me something.”

Otabek says nothing, doesn't acknowledge that he recognizes the nameless voice on the other end of the line, just chooses a track.

Yuri recognizes _Welcome to the Madness_ and smiles like a fool in love. Which he totally, totally isn’t.

*

Yakov asks him if he has any ideas for the next season’s music and theme. Maybe flamenco? Almost all skaters eventually have one in their repertoire, and Yuri’s already advanced enough to try one. Or perhaps something like the one that Hanyu kid broke the Olympic record with in Sochi—a jazzy number like Parisienne Walkways?

“Why don’t I embrace the present and do my best each day rather than constantly worry for a perfect tomorrow?” Yuri replies. “I’m sure it’ll come to me sooner or later.”

His coach is stunned speechless.

(The boy has obviously gone crazy. But at least he’s at still surpassing the targets Yakov sets every day. As long as he completes his goals, Yakov could care less. But then again, he’s had worse. All the star pupils start quoting clichéd romance at him some time or another. It’s to be expected.)

*

After Yuri hangs up, Otabek, of his own volition, plays _Crazy Love_ and _Destroya_ back-to-back.

If Yuri needed any proof that Mindy Gledhill and MCR were not intended to ever collaborate, this was it. But for some reason, inexplicably, he also can’t stop listening, and tries to decode it as if it’s a secret message meant just for him.

At one point in the early morning, the lyrics start to fuse together with the seductive, sedative lilt of Otabek’s voice.

Yuri has never felt so turned on.

What even is his life.

*

He’s at the record store, shopping around for potential exhibition pieces. Nothing is catching his eye. He wants to do something dramatic.

He wants to blow everyone away. Something fresh, exciting, utterly new.

Nothing he already knows is good enough.

Yuri rounds the corner, finds a man looking at a box of marked-down old vinyls. He’s not that tall, but bears a striking figure from the back: scarf, leather jacket, tight jeans. His hair is styled as an undercut: not too attention-seeking, but Yuri finds himself drawn to it nevertheless. Fingerless biker gloves pick out worn album covers.

This is the kind of person Yuri aims to impress—beyond Victor Nikiforov, beyond the traditional skating fanbase, beyond the screaming girls. They’re all too occupied with technicalities to appreciate what he can offer. Yuri wants to drag strangers and outsiders into skating and trap them with his brilliance. He wants to reinvigorate the general public, wants to bring ‘cool’ back to his art, wants them to beg for more.

It has to start somewhere, doesn’t it?

He takes a deep breath. “Excuse me, just wondering if you could recommend some of your favorite singles–”

The man turns around, a bright blue _Parachutes_ album in one hand.

“…to me? Maybe?” Yuri finishes, losing his entire train of thought, paralyzed by this handsome stranger. What? Wait. No. He didn’t think that. He totally didn’t think that.

“Sure,” the stranger says. “I know a few.”


End file.
